


The Last Case of DI Lestrade

by deutschtard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other, Post Reichenbach, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:10:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschtard/pseuds/deutschtard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's still got one more case left in him. Even without Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Case of DI Lestrade

Every paper in London was plastered with the news, "Fraudulent Detective Suicide!" "Sherlock Holmes Dead," and so on. It got so infuriating that he barely picked up the papers anymore. He picked one he thought would be safe. It was full of the usual, page after page of rubbish he tried desperately hard to disbelieve. 

And then he found it. Page 27, buried amongst lost cats and other inconsequential news. "DI Lestrade - Disgrace to the Force." It was barely an article, a few pithy words, but they still cut deeper than stab wounds. It spoke of the level of professionality he had forsaken by allowing the common civilian(the paper's words, not his own) to work on cases and handle copious amounts of classified evidence. 

Gregory Lestrade used that page as kindling to light the fire in his hearth that night. 

There had been no fanfare, nothing sensationalized about his dismissal. He'd been given two days to clean out his desk, gather his things from his locker, make sure there was no trace of him anywhere within the department. 

As he walked out, Anderson and Donovan stood, side by side, glaring at him reproachfully. Anderson looked undeservedly proud, staring down his beak. He didn't even give them the satisfaction of looking at them. He held his head high until he got to his car. 

Everything was stowed in the boot, carefully placed though they were precious heirlooms, relics of a life he could never have again. 

He sat in his car in the car park for 10 minutes. And then he cried. Not for long, a few tears at most before his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Lestrade - Mycroft Holmes"

The phone clattered into the boot as he drove home, once again feeling the shame leaning heavily on his shoulders.

He went to the funeral--if anyone could really have called it that. The back pew in the left corner, the tree by the furthest edge of hearing distance from the reverend. Lestrade didn't speak to John or Mrs. Hudson, or anybody else that was there. He sat alone, ignored and forgotten, quite unlike the ghost of the detective that had brought him to this church.

The next day, he sat alone in his house. His wife had left months ago, run off with the bloody PE teacher Sherlock had mentioned at the Christmas get together. She'd taken the dog, the couch, the rug they'd bought on their trip to Istanbul for their 10th anniversary. She left him almost nothing, save his wing-back chair. 

So that was where he sat. A cooling cup of tea lay untouched on its saucer on the end table beside him. He tried watching people out on the street through the window. When that tired him, he attempted birdwatching with a book she'd forgotten, or left behind on purpose. A few days of endless boredom and restless nights, and he switched to attempting to watch television. 

There was nothing on, there never was. The reality shows reminded him of the first time he and Sherlock had encountered Moriarty. The detective shows made his bones ache as he longed for the life that had been ripped from him. 

He nearly threw the remote at the telly, stopped himself at the last minute before just turning it off. Images did nothing to soothe his psyche, nothing to salve the anger, the resentment in his heart. Why couldn't those two sodding idiots see that Sherlock Holmes had been a great man? That he'd been helping them, he hadn't been involved in the cases outside of assistance.

A new page on the calendar, he decided to start pacing for fun. Well, not for fun, it wasn't fun. It mainly passed the time, gave his body something to do so it wasn't so restless. No one would hire someone labelled a disgrace. Not even the crap jobs at the Tesco or the petrol station. Nothing.

He paid attention to his mobile again. 27 texts from John Watson. Most of them asking how he was, if he needed anything, if he'd gotten out of the house.

Lestrade couldn't respond. He stared at the phone for a long moment. He could see that John was crying out to him, crying out for something, anything that bore even the slightest resemblance to the departed detective. He could feel the pain in those words.

The mobile went back in the drawer and he locked it, going back to his pacing. Another week. He hadn't shaved, he was beginning to look more like a mountain man than a once great Inspector.

The mail came that day like it did any other. It wasn't addressed to anyone specific, just his address. It had the same wax seal from the case with the two kidnapped children, the case that sewed that first seed of doubt into Donovan's mind. The resemblance didn't register, he opened it like the rest of the bills and adverts he got regularly.

The paper was soft in his hand, he stared at it, mouth agape. Only a single phrase: Believe in Sherlock Holmes.

He stared at it for, God, he couldn't even remember, time seemed to stop.

Not being a forensics man himself, he simply placed the letter back on the table, his hand slow, almost reverent as it did so. He then went back to his desk drawer, unlocked it and sent one text.

I trust you, I still believe in Sherlock Holmes. - Greg

****

John Watson was roused out of something vaguely resembling sleep by the text tone of his mobile. He hoped beyond hope it was him, that he'd still be alive, that something would have changed, that his mind had played tricks on him that day. 

He hadn't smiled in nearly a month, but as he sent the response to Lestrade, the corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

I do, too. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. JW

****

The next day, he shaved, showered and called some of his old friends in the department that still spoke to him. That afternoon, his table was filled with any evidence relating to James Moriarty/Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes' demises. 

He had one case left in him yet.


End file.
